


Her canvas is burning

by Buttercup_ghost



Series: I found brimstone, in my garden // I found roses, set on fire. [3]
Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Past Isolation, Queerplatonic Relationships, Time Travel Fix-It, like past time travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-25 01:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12025536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: Everything is yellow; the flames dancing at her feet, her charred hair burning to cinders, her flower welling up and rotting. It's all yellow, as if she was dyed in the shade.





	Her canvas is burning

Everything is yellow; the flames dancing at her feet, her charred hair burning to cinders, her flower welling up and rotting. It's all yellow, as if she was dyed in the shade.

It has always been this way; she has always been a yellow rose. Her hair is golden, her dress as green as a stem, her blue eyes reflecting water.

There is no water, anymore. 

Only fire.

Ib's face is blank, and she cannot tell what emotions dance in her red gaze. Ib was the oposite of her; red where she was blue, brown where she was yellow, a frown where she was smiles. She wanted to see her smile.

Maybe that is why Mary was attracted to her, drawn like a magnet across a table. She was all she wasn't, and she loved her for it.

She wasn't alone in this, though. Garry, too, was like looking in a distorted mirror. 

He was similar to her.

it revolted her—like magnets, yet again, the same sides pushing each other away. He was anxeity ridden, fear bubbling up in him like a bubble, ready to pop. He hide it behind a smile and gold manners, but she knew. It wasn't hard to figure out. 

It reminded her of herself. _He_ reminded her of herself.

She hated it.

She hated him.

And yet, and yet. In this haze of yellow, days blending together like paints, before them, it was not he who set her ablaze, it was not he who scorched her, nor who stared her in the face as she cried out in pain, burning.

It was her.

It was sweet, brave faced, caring little ib. 

Maybe she was wrong to think them opposites, after all.

The gallary sings as Mary cries.

Her canvas is burning. Her canvas is burning.  _Her canvas is burning._

_Her canvas is **b u r n i n g—**_

 

The first thing she's aware of is screaming. 

Its an awful noice, punctuating her ears, and she wishes it would stop, that whoever is making such a dreadful noice would quiet. She doesn't realizes it's coming from her. 

A gentle hand starts stroking her hair, and the shrill sound starts to wind down. Ibs eyes stare at her, and she jumps, mind going back to the nightmare. Unlike before, though, ib's emotions are more readable, open. She is worried, concern dancing in her gaze wearing dresses tinged with regret. For some reason, Mary feels like crying. She doesn't realize she's muttering until ibs finger silences her lips.

"You're canvas isn't burning. It never will again."

Her panicked, warn mind doesn't fully understand the implications of the sentence, not until morning, when it is to late to ask, to late to do anything but wonder, but it calms her down. Ib holds her, hand stroking her golden locks, murmurs lost on her now sleepy friend. She is drifting, here, unused to Such affections from her days in this gallery alone. She thinks she could fall at any moment, into sleep. a part of her is scared, scared of the monsters her father created, scared of the uncertainty of the dark, but ib's hands are strong but gentle, and she feels safe in them. She lets herself rest.

Before the world fades away she could have sworn she heard ib whisper;

"I'm sorry." 


End file.
